Frothed milk on my coffee.
Cumulus from above.
Looks so soft, light, inviting.
The sun on my face through frosted little window, the only barrier between me and my imagination.
We imagine frothed softness
yet death would await. 
Frozen, solitary Icarus’ descent.

Under the surface of imagination
Lays then our earthly world
plains of fields, greens, snakes of roads.
How pretty, familiar, disappointing.
The sun from above does not shine here.
In contrary, the day beneath imagination looks grim. 
It has been raining and the fields became soggy.
Going down to that soggy earth though
Means walking, not death.
Attaching acrylic wings I can go play Icarus and be back at home in time for dinner.

Wait though! As if to challenge the predictable, malaise-full mind of I…
The Earth now spreads a giant rainbow that looks amazing against its grey.
Wise sun, that of the afternoon,
Now lazily touches the fields
To show me how little I know and how awesome the bread can really taste.


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